


I Learned That From You

by thehoundisdead



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Homophobia, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Fluff, I wrote this while sick, M/M, Sometimes Wells Are Good, and a little high on nyquil, like seriously this has no plot other than fluff, pls dont judge my bad writing ill edit it later, this is a fluff only household
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22088872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoundisdead/pseuds/thehoundisdead
Summary: Stan and Bill through the ages, growing up together and falling in love.based on the song i learned that from you by sara evans but without the sad parts
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 22
Kudos: 151





	I Learned That From You

_ Age 13  _

“It’s j-just a little farther,” Bill turns to look back at Stan, biting his lip like he’s worried Stan might not follow him. As if Stan hasn’t followed him everywhere since he knew how to walk and stumble his way behind Bill’s lead. 

“Okay,” Stan nods back, trying desperately to tamper down his smile when Bill’s eyes light up, gleaming with a joy almost too sincere, childish in that way Bill always manages to pull off without actually  _ seeming _ like a child. Out here, like this, bumbling around the forest, surrounded by green trees and a roof made of wide leaves, Bill is different. More confident, more apt to smile wide and talk with his hands and tell Stan stories he must be making up on the spot but that are so detailed, characters described with such care, that Stan always finds himself lost in them, head held delicately in his hands as he waits for more. 

“I s-swear it’s back here,” Bill says, eyes surveying the trees around them like he knows where he’s going, infinitely sure of himself even though they’ve long since left the path. Out here, the roots of trees stick out obtrusively from the ground and strange small bushes litter the forest floor and Stan is immeasurably thankful he’d worn long socks. He can hear Eddie in the back of his mind reminding him about bug bites and rashes and just  _ thinking _ about it makes him a little itchy.

“I believe you,” Stan mumbles out a reply just as he manages to trip on a particularly thick root, toes digging underneath it and hands flying out to catch himself. Before he can fall, all the way at least, Bill is there, grabbing his forearms and then steadying him by his elbows. He doesn’t ask if Stan is okay, which is good because people are  _ always _ asking that.  _ Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you want to go home?  _ It’s nice to have someone just trust him. 

“Here,” Bill says, grabbing Stan by the hand and threading their fingers together as he leads them on, slower, more careful this time. It’s stupid and he doesn’t know why, but Stan finds himself blushing, watching the way Bill shoulders through the trees in front of him. 

Sure enough, after stumbling around for another few hundred feet, they find a clearing. There’s a house like structure that’s now just bones, pieces of fallen wood boards behind it that could’ve been a shed, maybe a small barn. Flowers have started to crop up all around, taking the land back over for nature, all deep purple and bright green. 

“You wanted to show me an old house?” Stan asks, though he’s not disappointed. The remains of the home are underwhelming but the scenery is beautiful, peaceful, he’s already looking around, his mind analyzing the plot’s bird watching potential. 

“Not the h-house,” Bill shakes his head, pulling Stan towards the other side of the site, hand still firmly clasped around Stan’s, “This.”

In front of them is a little wishing well, built of small, mossy, rocks, stacked painstakingly together, uneven but wound tight. Stan can hear the water still running underground, a peaceful trickle that only adds to the beauty of it all. Reaching out a hand before he can stop himself, Stan finds the rocks beneath his fingertips cold but smooth. 

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers, looking over at Bill with wide eyes.

“It’s a f-faerie well,” Bill says solemnly. 

“Bill,” Stan replies, eyebrows raised, “Faeries aren’t real.”

“They can be,” Bill argues, nodding his head toward the well, “If you w-want them to be.

“The water, it’s s-supposed to have mystical p-powers-”

“That’s just because it’s clean,” Stan cuts off but Bill just powers on, voice lowered like he’s afraid someone might overhear. 

“And at the b-bottom, that’s where the f-faeries live, protecting it from people,” he whispers, squeezing Stan’s hand in his own, “It’s said that they can grant w-wishes.”

“But,” he stops now, owl eyes flickering back and forth between the well and Stan, “There’s always a price. They m-might take your f-first born or your f-favorite memory or your left eye-”

“Gross,” Stan says, like he always does when Bill starts one of his horror stories. He doesn’t mind listening to them, not really, especially when it’s just the two of them holed up in Bill’s room, laying shoulder to shoulder on his bed. But it’s definitely not Stan’s preferred genre. 

“Or,” Bill smiles now, free hand digging around in his pocket until he pulls out two coins, “Just a p-penny. Because s-sometimes bad things want to do g-good too, want to help.” 

He hands Stan one of the pennies, pressing it gently into the palm of his hand, fingers ghosting against each other as he pulls away, “Make a w-wish.” 

And then Bill’s closing his eyes, eyebrows furrowing together as he throws the penny in, listening for the soft clap of it hitting the water below. Stan’s so caught up in it all, in the way Bill mouths his wish to himself, in the way the sun shining down on them makes Bill’s hair gleam red, in the way he’s treating this like it’s real, like it’s important, that he forgets to make his own wish. 

“Stan?” Bill asks when he opens his eyes, frowning down at where Stan’s penny still remains, “Are you g-going to wish for s-something?”

Stan looks at him and then down at their hands still joined and thinks,  _ I wish for us to stay the same  _ and when he throws the penny something about it feels real, an excitement that skitters down his arm as the penny is launched into the air and, though he found it ridiculous, endearing, before when Bill had done it, Stan catches himself listening for its final landing. 

When he finally looks away from the well, he finds Bill smiling at him, leaning to the side to bump their shoulders together, “I hope it comes true.”

“You don’t even know what I wished for,” Stan points out, but it doesn’t seem to bother Bill, stuff like that never has. 

“No,” Bill agrees, “But I know you.” 

His eyes meet Stan’s and they’re so serious, so brown and honest and knowing that for a second Stan thinks  _ maybe he does know,  _ and then he’s whispering, “I hope it comes true.”

_ Age 15 _

“W-will you go to the c-carnival with me, do you w-want, do you t-think,  _ shit,”  _ Bill mutters to his own reflection, fingers gripping tight to the edges of the sink, dropping his head between his shoulders. This shouldn’t be this stressful, and yet. 

“Who are you talking to?” Stan asks, surprising Bill out of his self imposed miserable reverie, padding closer with soft footsteps to where he stands in front of the bathroom mirror with the door open. 

“N-no one, myself, it’s,” he stutters, flustered and shy from Stan’s sudden appearance, “It’s nothing.”

“You sure?” Stan asks, one eyebrow raised, looking about five seconds away from crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Yeah,” Bill nods, eyes finding interest in the floor beneath his feet. 

“Okay, well,” he says, looking Bill up and down like he’s not sure he believes him, “Everyone’s ready in your room. We’re going to start the movie.”

“I’ll be there in a s-second,” Bill says, smiling awkwardly. 

“If you’re sure,” Stan looks him over again, stands with him for a few more silent, uncomfortable, moments before turning to walk back down the hall to Bill’s room. 

“Wait!” Bill calls, leaping forward with a sudden burst of confidence. His hand reaches out for Stan’s arm, fingers trailing down the length of his forearm and finding home around his palm, “Will you go to the c-carnival with me?”

Stan quirks his head to the side, eyebrows drawn together, “Aren’t we all going together?”

“Just the t-two of us, I mean,” Bill clarifies, trying in vain to quell the sudden burn beneath his cheeks.  _ It’s just Stanley!  _ He thinks to himself, trying to ignore the erratic beating of his own heart in his ears. 

“Won’t that be awkward?” Stans asks, though he takes a step closer to Bill, “Because everyone else will be there and it’s not  _ that _ big of a carnival-”

“As a date!” Bill rushes out, looking down at their hands, still clutched together, hanging in the air between the two of them, “Just the t-two of us...on a d-date.”

“Oh,” Stan says, eyes intent on the floor, cheeks glossed rosy pink under pale skin.

“It’s o-okay if you d-don’t-”

“I’d love to,” Stan interrupts, squeezing Bill’s hand hard, smiling wide in a way Bill so rarely gets to see, “I’d love to go with you.” 

“Okay,” Bill smiles back through nerve bitten lips, meeting Stan’s eyes to find them bright, bright blue. 

“Okay.”

“Hey!” Richie shouts, appearing in the bedroom doorway, “Are you dingleberries coming or are you going to wait around all night? I only have so much time before Eddie’s mom expects me back in her bed.”

“Richie shut the  _ fuck _ up!” 

~*-*~

The carnival is loud and bright with lights everywhere, kids running around and screaming loud, much like Richie probably is on the other side of the park. Stan’s fingers are sticky from sugary pink cotton candy, palms sweaty from the summer heat that lingers even after the sun has gone down, but Bill doesn’t seem to mind holding them. Hasn’t seemed to mind all night. He keeps reaching out for Stan, drawing him in closer or pulling him along to different rides and games. And now, here in line for the ferris wheel, Bill’s thumb is rubbing back and forth against the back of Stan’s hand. 

“So, then G-georgie goes, ‘but Mom, how can my feet s-smell if they don’t have noses?’” Bill laughs, eyes bright the way they always are when he talks about his little brother, “It took my m-mom, like, two hours to explain s-smell verses  _ s-sense  _ of smell.” 

“Oh my god, Georgie,” Stan laughs too, shaking his head because he can picture it; that innocent face, eyes so sincere and wide even as he asks the most ridiculous questions. 

The line opens up and then they’re shuffling forward, sitting gingerly in a red, shaky, cart while a bored looking teenager pulls down a metal bar that can’t really be doing that much in terms of safety. Their cart moves slowly higher and higher as seats are getting filled and again there’s Bill’s hand, wiggling beneath Stan’s own to curl them together and that action alone has Stan smiling to himself, fingers curling around Bill’s hand in response. 

When the ride starts, they move at a more gentle pace, slow enough to gaze out at the stars and the fair lights, bright and flashing and twinkling at them. They settle in quietly, the first time of the night that hasn’t been filled with chatter and laughter and now that he gets to stop and just think, Stan wants to reach over and trace his thumb along Bill’s bottom lip. Bill is stiff next to him, though, he can feel it from the press of their shoulders together and he’s about to ask why when Bill turns to face him and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“I don’t know how,” Stan responds without thinking and then mentally curses himself because he’s nervous and Bill looks so pretty up here, surrounded by the night sky, lights bouncing shiny off his russet hair, his face, his neck. 

“That’s okay,” Bill smiles, one hand reaching up to brush at the hair in Stan’s face and then lingering to cup his cheek, thumb rubbing soothing little lines against his cheekbone, “Neither do I.” 

“Oh,” Stan mumbles and then they’re leaning in and Bill’s lips are soft beneath his own and it’s nothing more than a chaste kiss but Stan still finds his hand reaching out to Bill’s leg, fingers gripping down on his knee. They move together, noses bumping so awkwardly it has Bill laughing against his mouth and Stan is suddenly convinced there’s no better feeling than this; Bill happy and leaned in close, pressing smiles into his skin like invisible tattoos meant only for them. 

_ Age 16 _

The truck that pulls up to Stanley’s house was probably once a nice cherry red but has since faded, now stands with a rusted out cab and a crumbling bed. The engine is loud, roaring down Stanley’s street like it’s own little warning. It can’t handle going above fifty miles an hour and half the time the AC doesn’t work and though Stanley would never, ever, pick something like that out for himself, just the sound of it sends a thrill of excitement through him. 

_ Bill is coming.  _

Stan is out of his room, shoes laced up neatly, calling a goodbye over his shoulder and walking down to the end of his driveway before Bill’s even gotten the truck in park. The windows have been rolled down by those little hand cranks on each side, the ones that very occasionally get stuck halfway between up and down, so Stan can clearly see Bill, smiling at him that big lopsided grin that he always wants to kiss right off his face.

The cab door beneath Stan’s fingers has little paint chips flaking off but it’s heavy, solid, and Stan wants to say  _ I can’t believe you chose this truck  _ but then he thinks of Bill flying by him on Silver, that decrepit old bike that always seemed just on the verge of falling apart. As he slides in, the leather seats still give off the distinct smell of tobacco and heat and though neither of them smoke, something about the aroma is comforting. 

“Hey,” Bill greets him, one hand reaching out to brush at the little curls on the side of Stan’s neck. 

“Hey yourself,” Stan smiles, buckling his seatbelt as Bill shifts into first gear, gliding them away from the prying eyes of Stan’s parents, his neighbors. 

“Where do you w-want to go?” Bill asks and Stan can’t stop the roll of his eyes because Bill asks this question every time and every time the answer is the same: nowhere. He wants to feel the tires crunch beneath them as they get lost on back roads, Bill’s hand ever moving between the gear shift and Stan’s thigh. 

“You know,” Stan shrugs like he always does, little smile on his lips when he feels Bill’s fingers reach over, trailing down his arm lightly to find a home in his hand. 

“You have the night?” 

“I told them I’d be spending it at yours,” Stan nods, because they’re still allowed to do that, because he hasn’t told his parents anything, because they don’t know about the way Bill looks at him, or runs his nose along Stan’s jaw, they don’t know that Stan has felt that heartbeat, hidden beneath an old baseball tee, pressed up warm against his own. 

“Good,” Bill nods and then they’re driving slow, listening to an old radio station and relishing in the way the warm wind runs over them, blowing through Stan’s curls as he leans close to the open window. The second they turn onto that dirt road path, Stan has his seatbelt unbuckled, sliding himself across the cab so that he’s right up in Bill’s space, the side of his head rested against Bill’s shoulder, Bill’s arm slung around him. Sunset turns to dusk around them as Bill drives them further and further into nothing and though Stan doesn’t particularly recognize any landmarks around them, Bill is ever sure of himself, confident in finding his way always. 

Stan’s pretty sure they’re on their way back to town, can see the blinking out lights of Derry getting closer and closer when the engine stalls and then fails with a gasp, while Bill guides the truck to a stop. 

“S-shit,” Bill mutters, hands running over the dashboard like that’ll solve anything and maybe if this was the first time, Stan would be freaking out, but the truck has a tendency of dying out when they’re just far enough outside of town to find problem in it. Bill looks at him, a little embarrassed, one hand reaching up to run through his own hair, “Do you want to w-walk back to town?”

But it’s late and this is Derry and Stan is fairly confident no stores will be open and neither of their parents would appreciate the wake up call mixed in with the story of  _ why _ exactly they were all the way out here. Besides, they’ve got pillows and blankets stacked up in that tiny space Bill calls a backseat for these exact moments. Stan shakes his head, nodding towards the bed of the truck and says, “We’ll go in the morning.”

They fumble out of the truck, grabbing their assortment of comfort and jump into the back, arguing about how many blankets they should lay underneath them and how many they should save to wrap themselves up in and when they’re finally done, Stan finds himself wrapped in Bill’s arms, head rested against his shoulder, looking up at the stars while Bill points out constellation after constellation. 

“You see that one there,” Bill asks, fingers reaching out like he can trace the night sky.

“Which one?”

“Right...” Bill says, grabbing Stan’s hand in his own so he can point it out, “T-there! That’s S-sirius. 

“And there,” Bill continues, still moving Stan’s hand in his own but Stan finds himself looking less at the stars and more at the way Bill shines in the moonlight, pale skin shining bright in some places and shadowed in others, “Pollux. Capella, P-pleiades, Rigel.

“Together they make up the t-turtle constellation,” Bill says, letting their hands fall back down, still tangled together. 

Stan turns, gives Bill his best  _ I don’t believe you  _ eyes and says, “I’ve never heard of a turtle constellation.”

“Well it’s up there,” Bill nods at the sky, eyes flashing to Stan’s face, “Just waiting to be s-seen.”

“What’s his story then?” Stan asks, moving in closer, turning on his side so he can rest his face in the juncture of Bill’s neck and shoulder, closing his eyes because it’s not even about the stars really; he just wants to hear Bill’s voice. 

“Well,” Bill starts, “There was a monster.”

“Of course.”

“Shh,” Bill laughs, turning his face to the side to press a quick kiss to Stan’s forehead, “There was a m-monster, one who would feast on the flesh of the innocent, who loved the taste of fear.

“And...” Bill trails off, thinking to himself, “S-some kids. They were the only ones who c-could really see the monster for what it was, so they tried to s-stop it but, but they couldn’t do it on their own.

“That’s where the turtle c-comes in,” Bill has one hand running up and down Stan’s spine, the other playing gently with Stan’s fingers, “B-because the turtle was immortal, god like even.”

“A turtle god?”

“Yes, Stanley, a turtle god,” Bill laughs, only settling when Stan leans over and runs a soft kiss against his neck, “He tried to help the kids, he r-really did. Gave it everything he had, used his magic, g-gave them advice, gave them the  _ tools _ to fight the monster t-themselves.

“But, in the end, it wasn’t enough and the m-monster killed the t-turtle. But the kids,  _ they _ were enough, when they were all t-together, fighting as a unit, and they were able to defeat the monster,” Bill finishes, nodding to himself. 

“So how’d the turtle end up in the sky if he died?”

“Well,” Bill starts, “After the kids defeated the monster, other ancient creatures began to emerge, ones that had c-cowered under the reign of the m-monster and together they pooled their magic and threw the turtle in the sky; immortalizing him forever in the s-stars.” 

“That’s a nice story,” Stan says, running his nose along the underside of Bill’s jaw, “But I’m pretty sure you just made it up.”

“They’re all stories, Stanley,” Bill says, leaning his body away so he can rest their foreheads together, “Who s-says we can’t write our own?” 

_ Age 17 _

The only light in Bill’s room floods shyly through his blinds, a combination of the street light burning out and the moon shining in. It makes the skin of Bill’s arms, his shoulders, his neck, look pretty gray like a marble statue. He’s got his arms around Stan’s middle, legs tangled up in Stan’s as they press in close together. 

Stan’s got his face shoved against Bill’s neck, breathing him in as a nighttime lullaby he’s grown used to having every Friday night. It’s warm and safe, wrapped up like this, so he pulls his hand away from where it was twisted up in the back of Bill’s shirt, idly trailing across Bill’s body to land on his face, fingertips pushing the hair off his forehead. 

It’s 3AM and Bill has been asleep for at least two hours now but Stan is wide awake, heart beating slow and full, listening to Bill’s breath, feeling the way his chest rises and falls beneath Stan’s palms. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to have this,” Stan whispers into Bill’s skin, “When we were kids, you lead us around and I followed you like a puppy because you’re bright and warm and I trust you, Bill, I trust you.”

Bills shifts a little, arms tightening around Stan’s waist, squeezing him tighter as if they could possibly get any closer. Stan waits for his breathing to even out again, looks at Bill’s long eyelashes fanned out against his cheekbones and thinks about, for the millionth time maybe, how pretty Bill is when he’s calm like this, relaxed. Stan trails one foot up Bill’s pajama clad leg and then back down again, leaning forward to place soft, feather light kisses to Bill’s exposed collarbones. 

“I love that you don’t baby me when I don’t need it but how careful you are with me when I do,” Stan whispers, lips moving against Bill’s skin as he speaks, “I love that you’re fearless and brave and that you make me a little braver too, just by being around you. 

“I love that you stop to pet every dog we see in public, love watching you drop down to your knees to coo at them when they’re nervous and they always,  _ always,  _ end up all over you, Bill, because you make people  _ comfortable. _ You make  _ me _ comfortable, I didn’t think anything could ever make me feel like this.

“I love that you drag Georgie along with you whenever he wants to go, even when I  _ know _ you don’t want to bring him, I love that I can  _ see _ how much you love him in the way you talk about him,” Stan brings one hand up, petting softly at the hair at the nape of Bill’s neck, “I hope you talk about me with as much care when I’m not around.

“And I love your penchant for broken things; your rusty old bike, your truck that only starts half the time,” Stan laughs, quiet and breathy so as not to wake him up, whispering into Bill’s shoulder, “Me.

“And Bill,” Stan whispers, dragging himself away from Bill to look at his face, he’s eyes shut peacefully, lips held in a soft line, “I don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud because I’m scared, because you  _ terrify  _ me, but I love you.

“I am so, unwaveringly, boundlessly, in love with you,” Stan finishes, voice shaky because he’s not used to voicing this many thoughts, this many feelings, is used to locking everything up inside his chest, to hide everything away like it doesn’t matter. 

There’s a shuffle, a breath drawn unevenly, Bill’s fingers beginning to move, to dig into Stan’s back, to pull him tighter into his chest and then Bill is whispering, eyes open wide and adoring, “I love you too, Stan, I’ve always loved you.” 

And then his lips are pressed softly, urgently, against Stan’s own, breathing in the same air, hands coming up to rest on Stan’s cheeks, to pull him in closer and hold him there long enough to press kisses and wide, happy smiles onto his lips. 

They fall asleep after that, drenched in moonlight and wrapped around each other with the calm surety of a couple far older than them, relaxed and confident in the knowledge that the other will be there when they wake. 

_ Age 18 _

Friday nights are spent different now, largely alone unless Mike manages to cajole him into going out, which in Derry for them really only means just going to Quarry. But the Quarry isn’t the same, not with Eddie and Richie sharing a shitty apartment with three other roommates in New York City, while Eddie attends NYU and Richie works full time in some dinky restaurant, practicing his stand up routine on his evenings off, or Bev in LA at a fashion institute on full scholarship, or Ben in London studying to be a big shot architect or Bill. 

Bill at Bowdoin College, perfecting his writing craft in a dorm room far enough away that he doesn’t get to drag Stan around for ice cream on Sundays and the library on Wednesdays and quiet night outs on Fridays. 

He calls, always he calls, early in the morning or late in the evening, telling Stan rich stories about his classmates, his professors, about the squirrels on campus who will come right up to your hand as long as you have food. He promises to come back on the weekends but there are endless books to be read, essays to be written, study groups and academic labs to attend and drives home always seem to get pushed to the side. 

Stan loves him still, understands that Bill is busy with school and that Stan himself is still apart of the tireless rigor of high school; finishing up his senior year a year behind his friends because he happened to have been born just a few months too late to land him in their class. So Stan understands and he does not push him to come home because he’s not selfish with Bill, even when he desperately wants to be. 

Bill calls and writes letters and sends pretty postcards and he’ll be back for winter break and then again in the summer and it’ll have to be enough, for now at least, until they’re both done with college and can meet somewhere in the middle. 

Still, Stan doesn’t think he knew what lonely meant, not really, not until he lay in his bed on Friday night without bony shoulders poking him or fingers tracing stories into his back. 

~*-*~

Stan wakes up, eyes blurry and ill adjusted to the dark, to an endless scratching at his window. The hair on his arms stands on ends and he wants to pretend he can’t hear the scratching and knocking because maybe then it’ll go  _ away _ but the noise doesn’t stop, if anything just grows more insistent. He turns on his lamp with shaky fingers, eyes peeking over to his window slowly, timidly, only to be met with familiar blue eyes. It’s a sight so welcome yet so unexpected, it has Stan pinching his arm hard because he must still be asleep, this  _ has  _ to be a dream. 

“Bill?” Stan asks, scrambling out of bed and over towards the window, yanking it open with a flurry, hands reaching out to touch Bill’s shoulders, his hands, his cheeks because he can’t believe he’s  _ real,  _ that he’s  _ here,  _ “What are you, what are you doing here?” 

“I missed you,” Bill says, falling into Stan’s bedroom with a quiet thump, hands reaching out immediately to grab the bottom of Stan’s shirt and pull him in, “I was sitting in my door room and I couldn’t sleep because it’s  _ Friday _ and all I could think about was that you weren’t  _ there _ and I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Stan responds, fingers tracing Bill’s cheekbones, his lips, the arch of his eyebrow, “I thought you were too busy to come home? Don’t you have homework?”

“Yes,” Bill nods, rolling his eyes because of course Stan is ever minded with the boring details, “I threw all my books in the truck because I can do homework  _ here _ but I can’t be with you  _ there. _ I just miss you.”

“Okay,” Stan nods, calm, threading his fingers gently in Bill’s hair and then he’s yanking him forward, crashing Bill’s lips against his own because he wants to be close, he  _ needs  _ to be close. His lips move slowly, whispering into Bill’s skin, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I had to see you, even if it’s just for the weekend,” Bill’s voice is so  _ earnest  _ in that way that makes Stan’s heart thud just a little faster as he leads Stan to the bed, pulling him down and wrapping him up in his arms, “Even if it’s just for now.” 

“I love you,” Stan mumbles into his neck, breathing in his smell because he missed  _ this,  _ feeling warm and safe wrapped up in Bill, in his body heat, in his arms, in everything that makes him  _ him.  _

“I love you too,” Bill whispers into Stan’s hair, brushing unruly curls into calm waves, leg pushing in between Stan’s own. 

“I’m glad you came,” Stan says, nosing along Bill’s collarbone. 

“Me too,” Bill whispers, big hands resting wide on Stan’s back, rubbing little circles into his spine, “Me too.”

Stan falls asleep with his nose pressed against Bill’s pulse, hands snuck up under Bill’s shirt to hold his hip, his shoulder blade, to feel his warm skin beneath his fingertips. Maybe it’s a little codependent but it’s the best Stan has slept since Bill left for school. 

_ Age 28  _

Stan wakes up, bleary eyes checking the clock on his bedside table to find it’s far too late for the other side of his bed to be quite so cold. Or too early, perhaps. Either way, Bill should be there next to him, breathing little huffy breaths into the pillow, fingers ever reaching out to Stan’s hips and shoulders and hands. 

The floor is cold beneath Stan’s bare feet, even though winters in Georgia are a far cry away from blizzardy white haze of Derry in December. He pads down the dark hallway, fingers trailing against the wall as he goes, until he finds the office door shut but with a faint orange glow seeping out from beneath the door. Opening it finds Bill, hunched over his laptop with a glass of Scotch, glasses on as he squints at the screen. 

“It’s late,” Stan says when it becomes clear Bill doesn’t notice him, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. Bill doesn’t bother looking up or seeming particularly surprised at the sudden intrusion. 

“I need to finish this scene,” Bill murmurs into his glass, eyes never leaving the screen in front of him. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, rough and quick and says, “It’s just, it’s just not  _ working. _ Fuck.”

“It’s late,” Stan repeats, now moving further into the room, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Bill’s shoulders, resting his cheek against the back of Bill’s head, “Come to bed.”

“I will, I will, I promise,” Bill shoos off, but all the same he leans into Stan’s touch like that’s all he needs, one hand reaching up and away from his laptop to rest on top of Stan’s, “I’ll be right up, I just need to figure this out.”

“You need to sleep,” Stan mumbles, one hand reaching up to card through Bill’s hair much more gently than his own hand had only moments ago, “You’ll think more clearly in the morning.”

“It’s just not making any  _ sense,  _ Stanley, I had it all planned out and  _ now _ it’s like, it’s like the words won’t come out,” Bill’s voice is rough and Stan can tell by the way he sits, hunched and ruffled, that he’s tired, too tired to really think out one of his overly complicated scenes, “I just want to finish it.”

“Tomorrow,” Stan mumbles, hands spreading out wide on Bill’s chest and sliding up to his shoulders, “Come to bed. You can tell me about it.”

“Yeah? You sure you want to hear about monsters and ghouls and psychopaths at...” he pauses, checking the time on his laptop,  _ “Fuck,  _ four o’clock in the morning?”

“Mmm, wouldn’t be the first time,” Stan agrees, stepping backwards to give Bill room to scoot out of his chair, “Up. Come on.”

“Alright, alright,” Bill laughs, following Stan’s lead out of the office and towards their bedroom, sliding under covers next to Stan and pulling him in close, “You sure you want to hear about this?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to, Bill,” Stan says, though he’s more focused on trying to arrange himself comfortably on Bill’s chest, head resting on his pec and arms circling around him, keeping him close. 

“I thought you didn’t like to hear scary stuff before bed,” Bill whispers into the dark of their room, one hand cupping the back of Stan’s neck, fingers playing with the little dark curls there. 

“It’s not my favorite thing, no,” Stan nods, wiggling one of his legs around until it’s thrown comfortably over Bill’s, “But I always sleep better when you’re here.”

“Stanley.”

“It’s true, I hate going up to bed before you,” he whispers, fingers gripping onto Bill’s ribs, “And I know you have to write, and I know you’re only down the hall, but I miss you.”

“I love you,” Bill smiles, leaning forward to kiss Stan, soft and slow, leaning their foreheads together when he draws away. 

“I love you too. Now,” Stan says, rubbing his hand up and down the length of Bill’s side, “Tell me about the scene.”

“If you insist...”

“I do, Billiam,” Stan mutters, smiling into Bill’s chest when he hears,  _ feels,  _ him snort in return, “Now tell me about it, I always want to hear what’s on your mind.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [talk to me on tumblr!](https://stanleyyelnatsthethird.tumblr.com)


End file.
